firecracker ???

It didn't hit him right away.

Not when she turned and walked back toward the castle, her cloak trailing behind like ink through snow. Not when Draco Malfoy glared and muttered something sharp under his breath, nor when the cold started to bite at the back of Harry's neck as he stood there, alone in the courtyard. He didn't realize it as he trudged up the steps or even when he slipped back inside, the warmth of the castle making his skin sting in that way frost always did.

It hit him later—somewhere between the second and third corridor on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, when the air had gone still and the halls were mostly empty, when all he could hear was the distant hush of footsteps and the echo of her voice, too clear in his head.

He liked her.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't a dramatic realization with trumpets and proclamations or some blinding rush of "Of course!" like in a storybook. It was quieter than that. Softer. It had crept in on padded feet, slow as snow settling on stone, until it was everywhere and inarguable.

He liked Lyra Black.

Not just because she was beautiful—though, Merlin, she was—and not just because she was clever in the way that made everyone else seem like they were shouting to be heard. He liked her because, for one night, she hadn't been perfect.

She'd been furious.

Sharp.

Vulnerable.

And she'd let him see it.

Harry stopped in a narrow hallway and leaned back against the wall, cold stone seeping through the layers of his cloak. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes for a second, trying to clear his head. It didn't help.

She wasn't kind, not exactly. She didn't soften her words or offer comfort. She wasn't the sort of girl who folded under pressure or looked at him like he was special just for surviving. She had said his name like it was a challenge. Like he'd have to earn the right to hear it again.

He liked that.

He liked the way she didn't flinch when people stared. He liked that she didn't act like he was famous. She acted like he was just Harry. Loud. Blunt. Occasionally impressive, mostly annoying. Human.

And she had told him the truth. About Sirius. About her family. About what legacy meant to her. Not because she wanted to confess anything, but because she couldn't help it. Because the words were already halfway out before she decided whether or not he deserved them.

He had listened. Because how could he not?

Sirius Black. His parents' friend. His godfather. The man who had betrayed them.

The names all tumbled through Harry's head now, each one heavier than the last. But Lyra's voice cut through it, sharper than any of them. Her fury wasn't about politics or prophecy or the war they hadn't yet started to understand. It was personal.

He had heard it. Felt it. And though she hadn't cried, though she hadn't faltered once—not really—he'd caught a glimpse of something raw behind her usual control.

And he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He didn't know what it meant, not really. He didn't have older brothers to tease the truth out of him or parents to pull aside and ask, "What do I do?" He didn't even have Hermione right now—he'd never hear the end of it. And Ron... Ron would laugh himself to death.

Harry walked on, slower now, hands deep in his pockets. Every turn of the corridor brought another flash of the conversation. Her voice. Her words.

"If you're not nearly as clever as you think you are."
"I watch everything."
"You're not quite unbearable."

He grinned, just a little. That last one stuck. Not because it was warm—coming from her, it was practically a love letter.

He liked her.

He liked Lyra Black.

He wasn't sure when it started—maybe on the train, maybe when she hadn't looked at him during the Sorting, maybe the first time she spoke and he realized she never said anything unless it was absolutely necessary. Maybe it had always been there, buried under confusion and annoyance and the way she made him feel stupid in the best and worst ways all at once.

Now, though? It wasn't buried at all.

It was like a lantern had turned on inside him.

She'd let him in. A little. Just a crack. But enough.

And that made all the difference.

By the time he reached the Fat Lady's portrait, his heart had quieted into something steady. Not calm, exactly. Just resolved. He gave the password. She looked at the snow in his hair and sighed, but said nothing.

The common room was quieter than usual. Some students sat curled in armchairs with cocoa, others scribbling out last-minute essays. The fire burned low in the grate.

He climbed the dormitory stairs slowly, his shoes leaving faint wet marks on the stone. Ron was already asleep, sprawled across his bed, one arm tossed over his head. Neville snored softly. Seamus muttered something about chocolate frogs in his sleep.

Harry changed into pajamas and sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers curling around the hem of the blanket.

He thought of her.

He thought of the wind catching her hair as she turned away. Of the steel in her voice. Of the flicker of emotion behind her eyes when she'd said Sirius had abandoned them all. Of the smirk when she'd said "Your Highness" wasn't a real nickname—and then hadn't told him to stop.

He grinned. Because he liked her anyway.

He closed his eyes, the snow still fresh in his memory, and saw her standing in it again—not as the cold Slytherin who ruled from the shadows, not as the untouchable girl with perfect posture and sharper words—but just as Lyra. The girl who had spoken to him when she didn't have to.

He liked her.

He didn't know what to do about that. There was no instruction for it. No advice column. No Quidditch playbook that covered feelings for the sharp-tongued Slytherin girl who had just sort-of complimented you in the snow.

She hadn't called him clever. But she'd said he wasn't unbearable.

He smiled faintly.

She'd told him about what it meant to lose someone not to death, but to defiance. And when he'd asked about Theo, she hadn't snapped or deflected. She'd told him the truth.

Harry turned and slid under the covers, the sheets cool against his skin. He stared at the canopy above.

She was right—he wasn't subtle.

He didn't want to be.

He wanted to hear her talk again. Not the rehearsed words, the things she said in class or the cold retorts in the hallway—but the real voice underneath. The one that cracked just slightly when she talked about family. The one she hadn't meant to let him hear.

He wanted to know what made her laugh.

He wanted to know what she feared.

And he was going to see her again tomorrow.

Talk to her.

Not by accident. Not by coincidence.

Because he wanted to.